Spring Awakenings

I love gardening.

That’s something the teenaged me would never have imagined saying, because as a kid, I hated gardening. My family had a substantial vegetable garden that needed to be hoed and planted and then weeded on a regular basis. We had a big yard to boot, and there often was grass to clip or leaves to rake, which is not the way most kids like to spend their time. In other words, gardening was a chore.

But later in life, as a homeowner, I discovered the joy of gardening. I owe that in large part to my mother, who began sharing bulbs and cuttings with me. At first, I had just two small and underpopulated gardens, one on either side of the front door, planted by the previous owners. There was one rhododendron and two azaleas, and the ground was covered with white landscaping stones. I didn’t like the look of the stones, so I planted a few more things and put pine bark mulch over it all. Thus began my 30-year foray into gardening.

Over the years, I spent more and more time planting, and then tending to, more and more flower gardens. Today, gardens line the entire perimeter of our property, with several more inside the yard, and container gardens on the back porch, to boot. I tried planting a vegetable garden for a few years, but between our resident groundhog and rabbits and the densely packed claylike soil, the return on investment was very low. So now it’s all about the blooms, about the blooms, no veggies.

Gardening became my “me” time, an escape. I didn’t (and don’t) have a bad life, but like anyone else, I’ve faced a few personal challenges. In contrast to my sometimes frustrating days at work, when I often put in a full 8 hours of hard work but go home wondering if I’d accomplished anything worthwhile, gardening gives me an immediate and visible sense of accomplishment. Susceptible to sensory overload, particularly sounds, I relish the quiet of the backyard — a welcome respite from dueling TVs played at high volume to be heard above the air conditioner and each other. Diagnosed with a health condition that worsens with aerobic activity, I find the slow, methodic (and sweat-inducing!) work of gardening to be the perfect exercise for me.

I also have discovered that pulling weeds can be emotionally therapeutic. Mad about something? Pull a few linear feet of chickweed or clover out of the ground, or yank up a deep-rooted thistle, and work out that frustration. Trying to make a decision? Consider the options, and weigh their pros and cons, while digging holes to plant some annuals. Neglecting your prayer life? No better time to get back on track than when you’re on your knees working the earth. (Seriously, I’ve held some pretty deep conversations with God in my gardens. After all, wasn’t a garden the scene of the very first conversation between God and humans?)

Here’s perhaps the most rewarding part of flower gardening for me: Seeing the first purple crocus or yellow mini-daffodil burst through the snow. Realizing that the bare branches of winter magnolias have become covered in white flowers, the first-blooming flowering tree in the DC area. (Not the Japanese cherries, despite all their attention.) Spotting some buds on the red maple or the crepe myrtle. Rediscovering the deep, rich, and brilliant hues of nature as they replace the dull browns and grays that become the unrelenting, gloomy backdrop for daily life during long Mid-Atlantic winters.

Rebirth. Renewal. Hope. Growth. A new page, a clean slate, a fresh start. Victory. Life after death. The symbolic cliches are obvious and endless, but they’re also very appropriate. Because year after year, in late September, I sadly cut back perennials, pull out annuals, and put the gardens to bed as I prepare for winter — but I do this “not as one without hope,” but with the knowledge that in the distance, past the upcoming months of cold and snow, lies the assurance of a beautiful spring awakening.

And every year, usually in late March, that assurance becomes a fulfilled promise as the continuous parade of blooms with which I measure time begins again. First the springtime bulbs, then the late-Spring rosebushes, followed by day lilies in June, coneflowers in July, torch lilies in August, asters in September — and so many more, which take turns making their debuts throughout the blooming season.

Noah’s promise rainbow was in the sky. Mine is found in the color spectrum of my gardens, which border my life with an ever-changing kaleidoscope that brings me blessed assurance, great joy, and boundless gratitude for the gift of life, in all its beauty.

Springtime and its blooms adorn, symbolizing life reborn.

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